Category Archives: Qu’Appelle valley

Where the Salmon Led Me

Art by Danny Cheng. Used with permission.

“Returning Home” by Danny Cheng. Used with permission of the artist.

For a decade or so, I have been a homebody. A body who wishes to stay at home.

My wandering has been limited to annual visits from my chosen home, in Saskatchewan, to my birth home in the Ottawa Valley, and back again. (Not unlike the salmon, except they don’t  get  repeat visits.)

As our grown daughters leave and explore the world, we want to see them in the places that have called to them. And so it was that Shane and I found ourselves traveling to Prince Rupert in Northern B.C., the place that has called our daughter Laurel’s name. For both of us, this was new territory.  Strange.  Unknown.  Unfamiliar.

As we travelled, I wondered ….

How do we come to a new place? How do we begin to take in, to apprehend that which is strange to us? What opens us up to a new place?  Why do we feel at home in some places and never at home in other places? 

When I arrived in Saskatchewan 35 years ago, it was certainly strange to me.  I could not immediately see its beauty. I saw its bleakness, and how utilitarian many of the buildings were. I missed the familiar aesthetic  of rural Ontario’s cozy patchwork quilt. One late spring day,  I was driving in the Assiniboia area. It was one of those fickle prairie days, sun out full, then purple storm clouds moving like a ship across the land casting light and shadow on fresh green growth. At that moment, I fell in love with the prairies. I remember how that beauty moved right into me, stirred me up inside, and changed my way of seeing.

I revisit this early sense of strangeness when coming to a new place. I admire the mountains, for example, but feel as though I am living in a beautiful calendar, as if they are not quite real. They feel remote, even after I have spent days hiking here. As we move towards to Northwest Coast, I feel more of a kinship with the land and sky, as well as a strangeness. I am drawn by the fluidity of the sky and low hanging mists, so different from what I know in my prairie home. It stirs something in me.

low lying clouds, shifting on the Skeena River

low lying clouds on the move on the Skeena River

shifting sky at Prince Rupert

shifting sky at Prince Rupert

In the coastal rainforest, I am silenced. The stillness, the gloom, the green, the impossible hugeness of the trees. These giant trees seem barely related to the trees I know at home. I have a sense of ancient spirits.  These forests are as strange and unknowable to me as the Tsimshian art found throughout Prince Rupert.

Image 27How do I come to a new place? How do I begin to take in, to apprehend that which is strange to me? What opens us up to a new place? Why do we feel at home in some places and never at home in other places?

It was a stroke of luck that our daughter invited us on an adventure up a salmon stream. Reflecting afterwards, it seemed as if this salmon immersion day was the best possible way to get to know this new place. We travelled to a remote salmon stream, hiked up it, and across its waters. We worked with the salmon who were on their way home. Soaked to the bone. Rainforest. Moss dripping off trees. Slick logs. Low lying mist. The amazing feel of a fish against your calf as you struggle across a stream. The strength and sheen of this powerful fish. The beauty. The brilliant shining salmon red of the eggs. The salmon who leave their birth home for the ocean, only to return to the exact river or stream where they were born – spawning grounds for the next generation.

For millennia, salmon have been both sacred and central to the peoples who call this area home. Anything I knew about salmon was secondhand – from a can or a plastic bag, from a documentary, from a government report or newspaper headline, from Shane’s uncle bringing fresh and precious salmon to a family reunion. Our salmon immersion day  was like a portal providing the opening I needed to this new place, whetting my curiosity in the most wonderful way. I wanted to learn more about salmon.

Judith Roche - First Fish First People I found a marvelous second hand source, a book entitled First Fish, First People : Tales of Salmon from the Pacific Rim  (edited by Judith Roche  and Meg McHutchison)  which brings together writers and storytellers  whose traditional cultures are based on Pacific wild salmon: Ainu from Japan; Ulchi and Nyvkh from Siberia; Okanagan and Coast Salish from Canada; and Makah, Warm Springs, and Spokane from the United States. The stories are both sad and hopeful – the same story, repeated with local variations, a story we know in too many versions. The story is this: the salmon were central to the indigenous people, who honoured the sacred fish with ceremonies and whose lives depended largely on the salmon runs. When the various invading peoples came, canneries were opened, forests were logged, the land was mined, and hydro-electric damning and diversions combined to  decimate fish populations. When dams were built, governments  considered only fisheries of “commercial value” (not indigenous fisheries) and these dams ended the flow of many salmon rivers which whole cultures had depended upon for millennia.

In one of my favourite pieces in First Fish, First People, Lee Maracle, the well known author, critic, weaver and member of the Stó:lō Nation writes from the point of view of a salmon as it begins its journey as a tiny minnow. While environmentalists lament the diminishing salmon populations, Maracle (as a salmon) writes,  “It is not death that is the problem here. It is the absence of permission to engage us which continues to threaten you. Without our permission, you will sicken. Without our permission, you are violating the spirit of another being (my italics).” She asks how we can secure Salmon’s agreement to engage with them, and how we can express our gratitude for Salmon’s gifts if such permission is granted.

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First Fish Ceremony, Puyallup Tribe, 2012. The first fish caught in the season is displayed, cleaned in full view, cooked and shared. The skeleton is returned to the water to show respect to the salmon family; so that the salmon can return  to his family to say how well respected he has been.

Image 9Reading about the salmon provided a way in, a foothold, a possible lens. I was amazed at the many dimensions and layers in these stories and ceremonies for and about the salmon. The salmon’s life story is remarkable in itself, but the richness of the salmon’s homes, the creatures they depend on and those who depend on them, the stories, legends and ceremonies they inspire are legion. From this initial reading, it became clear that learning about salmon could take a lifetime, maybe several lifetimes. Learning about the salmon certainly changed my experience of the Pacific Northwest.  I began to notice salmon everywhere – on murals, on cans in stores, in museums, in menus, in public art, on anti-Enbridge signs I had noticed from Terrace to Haida Gwaii.

 

A school and community art project in Prince Rupert

A school and community art project in Prince Rupert

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Then I happened upon Robert Bringhurst’s three volume Masterworks of the Classical Haida Mythtellers. Bringhurst believes these Haida stories and poems to be outstanding literature which should be read alongside Shakespeare. In an interview with Bringhurst tucked in the end papers of one of the volumes, he says that these stories are like the “old growth forest” of our cultural history. In order to really “know” this place, it is important to know its oldest stories.  I have not yet read these tales,  and I hope to some day.

How do I come to a new place? How do I begin to take in, to apprehend that which is strange to me? What opens us up to a new place? Why do we feel at home in some places and never at home in other places?

In Saskatchewan, it was a particular day, a cast of light and shadow, that opened my heart. Here in the Pacific Northwest, the salmon and their stories provide a place to begin.

"transformation" by Joe Becker (Musqueam) at the entry of the BC's Museum of Anthropology at UBC

“Transformation” by Joe Becker (Musqueam) at the entry of the BC’s Museum of Anthropology at UBC

Not surprisingly, the salmon led me home, both to my birth home and my chosen home. Some say we travel to see home more clearly.  I thought in a fresh way about my home in Saskatchewan and my home in the Ottawa Valley. How much have I explored the creatures or plants and rocks that were once central to the people who live there? Are they still central? If not, what happened to them? Who were the first people who lived here?  What are their stories? What were their ceremonies or agreements with the land, the fish, plants, rocks, trees and other creatures they depended on for life?

In both my homes, I have been exploring some of these questions, almost by accident.

IMG_0886Take my birth home in Eastern Ontario, for example. Sometimes, in those places most familiar to us, we cease seeing things. Really seeing things.  One fall morning a few years back, I went and sat amidst the cedars, resting on the spongey earth, my back supported by the straight trunk of an old tree. I stayed for the entire morning, held by the healing power of these trees which I had walked by without really seeing hundreds of times.

I have a long history with cedars, but I had forgotten. My morning in the grove of cedars took me back to childhood when I played with its bark, stripping bits off, feeling its roughness. Removing one green scale at a time from the cedar branches.  I was reminded that cedar was one of the four sacred medicines used by my Cree and Saulteaux neighbours in Treaty Four territory but also much further afield. In the same way that the salmon immersion day made me notice how salmon were woven into daily life, my morning with the cedars made me notice cedars everywhere I went.  Cedar was in use all around me; in cedar strip canoes, in homes and cottages, rail fences, shingles, furnitures, baskets. My time with the cedars  tickled my curiousity and made me want to learn about their use over time, about the ceremonies and stories the people who depended on cedar told.

IMG_2209Here in Saskatchewan, I have been drawn for many years  to the plants that grow on the coulee hills among big and little bluestem and other prairie grasses. Spending time with them fills me with pleasure and provides a way for me to come to know my chosen home more deeply. Painting them gives me a way to be with them, to befriend them, to see them more deeply. I am interested in all their stages of life: emerging, before blossom, flowering, creating seed, dying. I like their attitudes, their stances, the way they hold themselves under this vast sky.  I am curious about their medicinal, food and sacred uses. Visiting the same places season after season matters. Not far from where I paint, my daughter  found a large buffalo skull in an eroded creek bank. I had always imagined buffalo in the long reaches of the Qu’Appelle Valley but not so much in this more intimate coulee. Knowing that the buffalo were once here, too, amidst the plants and grasses I am coming to know, shifted my understanding of my home place.

Like the salmon and the cedar, the prairie plants and the buffalo have much to teach me. Especially if I approach them with reverence; if I take time to simply be with them, if I express  my gratitude for their presence and their gifts in some way, if I remember that relationships are always reciprocal.

When I first came to the prairies, I learned many stories. I studied Plains history.  Many of these stories, though, left out the beginning because they were so focussed on a Eurocentric version of history.  The stories I learned are important, but they are only a part of the picture. These stories often have their roots in another place, a very different place across the ocean. But the stories and practices of the people who who were here long before spring forth from this particular place and are vital to my understanding of here. The stories of the first people who lived in these territories open up realms I may never have considered. 

How do I come to a new place? How do I begin to take in, to apprehend that which is strange to me? What opens us up to a new place? Why do we feel at home in some places and never at home in other places?

Where did the salmon lead me? They led me home. They took the scales off my eyes, they opened my eyes and my heart. They reminded me that coming to know a place always begins in  being there, whether it is feeling the salmon against my legs as I cross a stream, or taking in the pungent scent of sage on a coulee hillside. The salmon directed me back in time, to listen and learn from the first people whose stories and ceremonies were born in this very place. The salmon opened up rich possibilities for a deeper way of coming to know those places that I call “home”.

 

This is the third of a series of 3 blog posts about our recent travels to Northern B.C. and the Coast. All Aboard! describes our train trip and Salmon is about our “salmon immersion day.”

 

 

 

 

Creek

 

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“SongLines”, Paper collage and watercolour on watercolour paper, 10″ x 22″

During “Immersed in Nature: A Retreat at Valley View Farm“, a weekend hosted by my friend Debra and I in late August, we considered and explored line, shape and colour. The lines, shapes and colours  that called to us as we explored the natural world.

Much of my preparation for this weekend took place at Pheasant Creek Coulee, a few miles south of our farm. As I sit by the large stone I have come to know as “Grandfather Rock”, I am drawn by the shape of the creek, by the way that it winds and weaves. Again and again, I have drawn or painted or sketched  the creek as it sings and curls its way through the coulee and the hills in which it resides.

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"Pheasant Creek Coulee"

“Pheasant Creek Coulee”

 

 

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During our retreat, I began to play with the shape of the creek, starting with watercolours and eventually adding metallic papers – candy and chocolate wrappers, cigarette foils, origami paper. And there my own simple exploration of line, shape and colour sat for several weeks. I kept thinking “song line”…. it seemed the curves and rhythms of the creek were both outside me and singing deep within my body.

Collage- shape, line

Collage- shape, line, colour

I knew that I wanted the feeling of hills around the creek but not necessarily something representational. I began to play with shapes and contours, with different shades of rusts, browns, coppers, gold…..I wanted to capture the feel of the place, the movement of the hills, the way that this place sings within me, how it feels like  treasure.

Image 6 Image 7Once finished, I took this piece to the place that inspired it to photograph it. Seeing it in the coulee, amidst the rust of the little bluestem grasses, the gold of the aspen leaves, the shadows of the hawthorn and birch seemed somehow right, plus felt incredibly goofy (in a good way) and was just a lot of fun.
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Immersed in Nature

Do you have the patience to wait

Till your mud settles and the water is clear?

Can you remain unmoving

Till the right action arises by itself?

 Tao Te Ching

Photo Credit:http://thesimplefrontporch.wordpress.com

Photo – http://thesimplefrontporch.wordpress.com

a joint blog entry by Sue Bland and Debra Brown

Sue : I am not a patient person. Mostly, I do not have the patience to wait until my mud settles and the water is clear. To remain unmoving is very difficult for me. More often than not, I rush ahead with plans and lists and schemes. The wisdom of the twenty seven words above seems written for me.

Last year, when I was searching for venues to hold my art retreats and PLAYshops and my friend Debra was considering opening her farm home in the Eastern Qu’Appelle Valley for retreats, we wondered, slowly, tentatively…is this something we could do together?

the view from the top of the hill - misty moiety weather- at valley View Farm (well named)

the view from the top of the hill – misty moisty weather- at Valley View Farm (well named)

This simple question,  and the eventual answer to it, has taken us on a journey together , something we both came to see as a ceremony of sorts.

We talked about the question, let it rest, dreamed about it and slept on it. In time, the answer to our question arose, and it was YES. When would we hold it? We thought about May, dilly dallied, rejected May. Somehow, late August felt exactly right to both of us.

The burr oaks

The burr oaks

Together we came up with the title – Immersed in Nature: An Art Retreat at Valley View Farm. 

We prepared, each in our own way.

Debra: I sorted, cleared, reorganized more layers of 75+ years of family habitation. While this challenged me on many levels, I never lost the clear knowing that offering this retreat with Sue was a gift, the right “next step” to explore the long-held dream of offering sacred space for people at the farm.

Sue: I am so moved by the beautiful hills and valleys, grasses, woods and wetlands at Valley View Farm. How could this sacred place change and inform the way I offered a PLAYshop or an art retreat? If I truly listened, what did the natural world have to say about how we might approach our time together? I wanted our art to emerge from the nature were were immersed in. I wanted to offer exercises that might shift, ever so slightly, the way we see, experience and respond to the natural world. I practised close to home – in my beloved Pheasant Creek Coulee. There I sketched and painted, or simply sat and took in the beauty. There, I considered the visual elements of line, shape and colour.

the colours of the grasses

the colours of the grasses

Our enthusiasms and efforts were buoyed by registrations and expressions of interest. As we got closer to the weekend, a few people cancelled. Should we go ahead? Doubts surfaced. What if everybody cancelled? We determined that we would go ahead, no matter what. The ceremony of this joint venture was well underway, and even if it was just the two of us, we would see it through until the end because we very much wanted to.

Happily, we had three participants, each of who brought her own special gifts and interests to our shared weekend.  What follows are some “moments” that stood out for each of us.

Sue: Coming downstairs to see guests each with a dark coffee in tow in the sunporch, a book or journal nearby; companionable silence.

Debra: the land being received with such appreciation and delight on our introductory misty-wet walk up the hill, and throughout the weekend

Big Bluestem grass with wolf willow

Big Bluestem grass with wolf willow

More Big Bluestem (taller than I am)

More Big Bluestem (taller than I am)

Sue: a silent walk, sharing wonder and delight with others, but not using words

Debra: women moving and creating in their own rhythms, filling the house with waves of peaceful silence and rich conversation

Sue: the smells coming from the kitchen, as Debra created magic… with plates of such aesthetic beauty and such fresh taste, you could die and go to heaven

Debra's unbelievably scrumptious food

Debra’s unbelievably scrumptious food

Close up!!!

Close up!!!

Debra: the radiance of one participant, after a final pre-departure walk (and drenching) in the hills

Sue: the sound of charcoal on paper as we drew

Creating art…blindfolded!!

Creating art…blindfolded!!

Debra: the insistent presence of Nature throughout the program. ‘Immersed’ we were [or was that baptized and blessed?] by the rain, the shimmering dew on the grasses and verdant forest

the last of the blazing star

the last of the blazing star

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Collage- shape, line

Collage- shape, line, colour

Selecting paper treasure for the trip home

Selecting paper treasure for the trip home

Would we do it again? When the weekend was over, we really weren’t sure. A week later we met and talked about all we had learned, what we would change, what we would celebrate. Then, with the need to follow the insistent thrum in her core, Debra said, “There is something new rising in me”. That insistent rising is the seed of Sweet Darkness: A Mid-Winter Silent Retreat . And so, this ‘ceremony’ continues to ripple through our lives and into the world.

Sue's mandala (left) and Debra's mandala (right) . Each created without looking at the other!

Sue’s mandala (left) and Debra’s mandala (right) . Each created without looking at the other!

Goodbye…Hello!

*"Poached Egg Woman is Rooted" Photo by Cherie Westmoreland

*”Poached Egg Woman is Rooted” Photo by Cherie Westmoreland

These past few days, I have been moving plants from a thick tangle of grass which was once my perennial garden to a new spot out in the orchard. The thatch of grass has not been a perennial garden for several seasons now…. something I have been loathe to admit. Each spring, I have longed for the perennial garden of old and thought, “maybe this summer, I will find the time.” Finally, this year, I am able accept that I will not bring new life to this old spot, and that the time has come to let it go. As I have been digging and uprooting plants, I have also been remembering…I started this garden just before we had our first daughter. In this garden our daughters created magical homes for the fairies, picked bouquets and played imaginary games on our beloved chokecherry tree. Many of the flowers in this garden come from women dear to me – my late

old perennials are moved here to a new spot

old perennials are moved here to a new spot

mother-in-law Wanda, my dear friend Hope, my neighbour Wendy, our Aunty Joy. Through the years, this garden has given us joy, delight and colour. But as we travelled more often to Christie Lake in the summers, the garden got way ahead of me. Its fate was sealed a few springs ago when a mother duck laid 13 beautiful eggs right in the garden’s middle – giving me a great reason not to weed. As I take the roots and stalks of plants to their new spot, near the apple tree and by a willow bench, I think that it is fitting that this is also the year that our youngest daughters will leave home. The garden has lived its life. It has been the garden of our daughter’s childhoods. Freedom from this garden will give me more time to paint, more time to be with the wildflowers in the coulee. Some of the transplanted flowers will survive in their new home, some will disappear. I am curious to see what else will come to life.

A few weekends ago, I took part in “A Weekend with the Wildflowers and Grasses of the Qu’Appelle Valley” at Calling Lakes Centre (PCTC). Calling Lakes Centre is slated to close in August, after 60 years of making a difference in the lives of so many from all across Canada. For some, our weekend with the wildflowers was a way of saying goodbye to a much-loved place, of giving thanks for the wonderful memories. For others, this weekend was a way of saying “hello”. A mother and daughter who were new to Calling Lakes Centre reveled in the freedom of running up and down the hills and to the lake and back again. They said “hello” to this way of being together – just the two of them – without other family members. They said “hello” to their mutual love of wild plants, of fairies and of creating art. Our accompanying Elder, Dot, wrote “I recognize that for others it was kind a a good-bye time. For me, having not spent so much time there, it was more of a hello time. Hello to the flowers, some of them new to me, a Manitoba girl. Hello to a time of wandering up and down the hills, enjoying the view of the valley.” I love that the goodbyes and hellos, the new and the old, the memories and the possibilities are so intermingled.

As Calling Lakes Centre is winding down, new life is emerging in surprising ways. Close by, in Fort Qu’Appelle a dedicated band of volunteers and visionaries have invested much time in renovating Central School, built in 1911. Together, they are creating the Qu’Appelle Valley Centre of the Arts. This fledgling centre has already nurtured musicians, artists, poets and yoga practitioners with more to come.

Calling Lakes Centre nurtured many people during its 60 year life. Those of us who have been privileged to work there were inspired to explore learning which uses all the senses, which allowed people time with their own creative spirits in a peaceful place away from it all. You could say our own roots were strengthened at Calling Lakes Centre. I notice how many alumni staff continue to offer opportunities to learn – by offering retreats, readings, opportunities to explore art and poetry, PLAYshops. Seeds of ideas that may have emerged first while at Calling Lakes Centre, ideas that will germinate and flourish in other places. One program staffer, Jenni Krall along with her husband Jason, have started the  Wild Spirit Prairie Sanctuary on their beloved land, where they hope to celebrate spirit in this beautiful wild place in a simple way and  off the grid.

IMG_2038The closing of Calling Lakes Centre has had me looking for new venues to continue to offer PLAYshops. I have always returned from visits to my friend Debra’s farm in the eastern Qu’Appelle Valley feeling renewed and refreshed. Could Debra and I work together to offer a PLAYshop? After dreaming, and discernment and discussion, we decided we could. The particularities of place at Valley View Farm encouraged me to take a new look at PLAYshops, and so in August we are offering “Immersed in Nature: An Art Retreat at Valley View Farm” in the spirit of a “trial balloon”. Coincidentally, Debra worked at Calling Lakes Centre for many years.

Goodbye. Hello. Some parts of what we have loved survive. Some parts do not. The new emerges in the midst of the old. The new is inspired by the old. The spirit of the garden, the spirit we found on the hills during the wildflower weekend, the spirit of a group engrossed in creating something beautiful together lives on and takes fresh and surprising forms.

Poached Egg Woman Takes the Plunge!

"Poached Egg Woman Takes the Plunge",  watercolour and paper collage

“Poached Egg Woman Takes the Plunge”, watercolour and paper collage

Seems like the year a number of my friends have “taken the plunge” – moving across the country, choosing to follow their desire to live out their dreams, setting up a business in rural Saskatchewan,  and submitting a grant proposal to the Canada Council are among some of the ways they are taking the plunge. I am buoyed on by their courage and their example.

Seems like a year for me to take “the plunge”, too. Here are some plunges I have taken or am going to take:

  • I made my first move to sell art in a store. What I mean is – first time with me not selling my art directly! My rice paper panels and some fairies are hanging in one of my all time favourite Regina shops – the Paper Umbrella on 13th Avenue.
  • More and more, I am calling myself a full time artist. This is true at the moment… and it may be that I need to get some paid work to help myself along, but the feel of these words in my mouth – full-time artist – is delicious!!!!
  • I hope to take the plunge and offer a full weekend Paper Collage PLAYshop – no dates set yet. So far, I have offered day long PLAYshops, but want to offer more of an immersion experience, where people can lose themselves in the joy of coloured paper and fun!
  • I will be part of a team offering a weekend program at Calling Lakes Centre focussed on watersheds from May 9 to May 11th. This weekend is all about the Qu’Appelle River Watershed in Treaty 4 territory. I have been inspired to explore my own relationship with my beloved Pheasant Creek Coulee (which drains into the Qu’Appelle) from the point of view of home place and sacred spots and how our deep love for a home place can feed our activism for the health of the planet.
    "Poached Egg Woman takes the Plunge" in process

    “Poached Egg Woman takes the Plunge” in process

    To see Poached Egg Woman nesting, rooting, gliding, transforming, steeping and listening to the Choir of No, click the link!

     

Truly Home

How do you know when you are well and truly home? Three vignettes from my life in Treaty Four Territory, under the prairie sky.

I.

I am well  and truly home!

Our two farm dogs, Lady (mum) and Herc (son) fell into their own routines when I abandoned them and went to Ontario. That routine involves hunting muskrat in the dugouts, clearly an absorbing task for a pair of canines. I would head off on my morning walk, call the dogs and to my great dismay, nobody came. When I was a few kilometres down the road and on my way back, I would see two distant black dots racing down the road towards me, wearing signs of dugout activity when they arrived. Wet, with flecks of lime green duckweed on their coats!

Now, some weeks and many morning walks later, the dogs have caught on and have let the dugout go in favour of a morning walk.(Muskrat relief, to be sure!) They can barely contain their joy when I come out the door. All the way down the lane, they do doggie backflips, fall over each other, contort their bodies and tails in movements of joy and excitement and anticipation. Lady even smiles, a kind of ugly but sweet grimace. They trip over each other. Sometimes I can barely move down the lane. I occasionally remember kicking one of these dogs predecessors once because I was so frustrated that I could not move. (Shame!) The walk down the lane is a good a barometer of how crusty (or not) I might be feeling in the morning.

Two things: I am grateful that we have a short lane. The dog’s antics fill my heart with joy and are the best beginning to a morning walk.IMG_1681 IMG_1686 IMG_1698

I am now able to walk across the south field because it has been combined. Field walking is even more pleasurable than walking down the road. I like the unexpected dips and swells, the curves and surprises of walking across the fields. I like the wild untouched areas – a grove of willows here, a wetland there, an unexpected rise over here. The dogs follow their noses, read each other’s body language, their tails erect and a certain tension in their body when they pick up a scent. They bound ahead, disappearing at times, surprising me later by coming up from behind. Their movement is like a dance, is like the swoop of the grass birds as they fly hither, is like the curve of the land itself, under this vast bowl of sky.

II.

watercolour - Pheasant Creek Coulee

watercolour – Pheasant Creek Coulee

Last week, I was able to visit Pheasant Creek Coulee almost every day, sometimes with my paints, sometimes not. Colours are just beginning to change. The pinks of the bluestem grass on the hills is astonishing. This morning when I arrived, there were four Swainson’s hawks flying just over the hill where I often sit. I stopped and sat and watched them, listened to their sharp cries, wondered if they were a family or just a group of hawks who liked to hang out. The cry of a hawk is like the pungent scent of sage – no matter how many times you have heard it or smelled it, it catches you unawares, urges you to wake up, pay attention!

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I come to Grandfather Rock, a place where  I have painted often. In a certain way, trying to paint in this place is a way to come to know it better, to see all the shades alive in the pink of the bluestem, to wrestle with all of the troublesome yet beautiful greens. After some attempts to catch the feel and colour of the day, I return to what it is that I love most about this place – how to paint  the shape and curve of the land – the skeleton, the bones  beneath these hills.

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III.

Treaty Four Powwow, under the arbour. Flashing colours of dancers everywhere. Sound of drums beating here and there. A beautiful fall day nestled by Mission Lake in the folds of the hills of the Qu’Appelle Valley. Garbage floating off in the wind, or trampled underground. The smell of sweetgrass, of home fries, of deep frying. Powwow announcers trying to get people to come for the Grand Entry.

jingle skirts, Treaty Four Powwow. Photo courtesy of Kate Herberger,http://movingforwardlookingforthejoy.blogspot.ca

jingle skirts, Treaty Four Powwow. Photo courtesy of Kate Hersberger, http://movingforwardlookingforthejoy.blogspot.ca

I have just been to see our daughters, Jessie and Marina, and their horses Missy and Gatty. They have camped out here all weekend with other riders who made the trip here on horseback to honour the late Chief Irvin StarBlanket. Marina tells me that they have been asked to take part in the Horse Ceremony which will occur before the Special (Dance Competition) in honour of Chief Irvin. She is nervous. Gatty will do fine, she tells me. She is worried about riding in front of such a big crowd.

I am sitting directly across from where the riders will enter the powwow arena. Elder Mike Pinay, the announcer, shares something about the Horse Ceremony, and then says that two girls from outside the community have been asked to take part in this ceremony, to ride for the mothers and for the grandmothers. He goes on to say that it is unusual to ask outsiders to take part but that these girls are great friends of the community, and know some of  the ways of the community. It is a great honour for them to take part in this ceremony.

Mike then asks the StarBlanket Juniors drum group to begin their song and all of us stand. I stand tall, full of prayer, or pride, of love for these two daughters and the great honour they have of taking part in this. Marina nods in my direction as she rides by.The five horses circle the arbour four times, going slowly the first time around, then trotting, then loping. Drums beat, hooves beat, hearts beat…. I think of their grandmothers and great grandmothers….They look beautiful. Our daughters sit tall in the saddle.

When they are finished, I see them heading off towards the hills to let the horses have a good run, to let the horses loose. I have been proud of these girls many times before, but never like this.

These are not photos of the horse ceremony, but of the last part of the Memorial Ride.

These are not photos of the horse ceremony, but of the last part of the Memorial Ride.

some of the many riders and horses at Treaty Four

some of the many riders and horses at Treaty Four